A tormented writer confronts the dark force of writer’s block—literally and figuratively—in Leon’s introspective novella.

A once-celebrated author loses his family, his career, and even his will to live when an unshakable inability to write consumes him. On the verge of suicide, he glimpses a male stranger seated in a coffee shop, who beckons him over before apparently disappearing. The encounter, fleeting and surreal, leads the protagonist to the stranger’s empty table, where his ability to write mysteriously returns. But there’s a catch: He can only write at that table, and nowhere else on Earth. Creativity becomes tethered to place, and to a presence, that he can’t escape. Eventually, the writer flees to another city, trying to leave the curse behind. There, at a different coffee shop, he meets Tristan, a young man in a similar spiral whose life mirrors his own: Disowned by his wealthy family for leaving an Ivy League education to pursue writing, Tristan is staking everything on words that simply won’t come. When Tristan finds his own “table by the window,” the cycle appears ready to repeat. Leon weaves a psychologically rich, symbol-laden narrative that portrays the act of writing as both salvation and damnation. At its core, it’s a meditation on what it means to be an artist in a world that often punishes vulnerability. The author’s prose is poetic and often unsettling, laced with biblical references and allusions to Dante Alighieri’s work, underscoring themes of guilt, penance, and possible redemption: “I hoped for warmth but expected inferno, only I received limbo.” The writer’s block is no longer a metaphor, but a demonic presence that feeds on despair and failure; indeed, it becomes a complex manifestation of trauma, regret, and self-sabotage: a villain both invented and endured. Tristan’s tragic subplot adds texture and depth, even if the narrative logic grows abstract in the final act. Leon’s decision to personify inner demons gives the novella a surreal quality reminiscent of Franz Kafka’s work, and its confessional tone recalls Charles Bukowski’s more vulnerable moments. Brocas’ occasional, painterly illustrations contribute additional atmosphere.

A dark, poetic, and inventive portrait of artistic struggle.